God Knows
by Lucifer's Garden
Summary: Dean has never really believed in angels until now.


I do not own Supernatural or its characters! They belong to their respective creators.

Just a little one-shot scene between Dean and Sam. No slash or incest, I promise (damn it).

I'm not sure how I feel about this one – I meant to write in the choppy, nonsensical style, but I hope it's not too distracting. Ah well. The scenario was stuck in my head, so I had to write it down. Hopefully some people will like it. Enjoy!

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**God Knows**

He thought it was raining, but it was hard to tell. Maybe he was sweating. Maybe he was just imagining things. Was he still indoors? It doesn't rain inside. Yeah, definitely just sweating. He felt strangely weightless, suspended in midair, as though the floor had vanished underneath.

If this was death, it wasn't really so bad. Kinda dark, and quiet. Different from the usual blaze of noise and action that seemed to carve the shape of his life. Actually, it was almost . . . nice. Peaceful. Except for the burning in his chest. Shit, that smarts. He wished it would just happen, if it was going to, the whole death thing. This waiting bit was really sucking right now. He wondered when his life would start flashing before his eyes, and if he really cared enough to watch the recap.

_That Dean Winchester . . . what is there to say? Impatient sonovabitch. Couldn't even stand waiting around to die. Handsome devil, though. _

He tried to laugh – or maybe he did and just couldn't hear himself. He'd definitely have to get Sam to write that in his eulogy.

Oh God. _Sam. _

Nuh-uh. Screw death. Not while Sammy was still around, left behind all alone and helpless against the monsters in the closet. _"I'll save you, if it's the last thing I do."_ He may be a bit of an ass sometimes, but he was no liar. He made a promise. Not just to Sam, or to Dad, but to himself.

At least he had managed to take that ugly bastard down with him, the thing that slashed his chest open and put him in this mess. A few hits of rock salt should have done the trick. Hopefully. He seemed to remember it falling after he finished his last shot, but he couldn't be sure of anything at the moment. Maybe Sam got away in time. There would be no mercy in hell if that demon laid one disgusting finger on his little brother.

_Are you there, God? It's me, Dean Winchester. _

Not exactly good at the whole praying thing. A lifetime of experience taught him that demons were always around to mess with their favourite human playthings, but God . . . angels . . . nah. Obviously they had more important things to do than actually look out for Mankind.

But hell, if he did enough holy ass kissing, maybe they'd lend him enough strength to actually sit up. Worth a shot, right? For him, Sam would have been kneeling at an altar clutching a rosary by now. Maybe he'd even dress up like a nun. Man, he wished he could laugh at that image.

Yep, he was hallucinating now. Oh well. Maybe he could pretend the pain wasn't real and try moving. Okay, brain, let's get to work. Send out those commands. Get the legs and arms working.

Nothing. _Shit_. Not good, not good. Where the hell is Sam, anyway? He shouldn't be here, can't be here. Needs to be safe, somewhere far away. Gotta watch out for that kid. So goddamn helpless sometimes.

_I tried going to church a few times . . . well, when I was younger. I fell asleep in the pew that first time, but you're not gonna hold that against me, are you? I was seven, damn it. I mean dang it. Darn it?_

The whole thing was so friggin' lame. Way to go out in style, sucking up the big man upstairs. Bastard's probably not even listening. The irony of the whole thing hadn't escaped him. Spent his entire life vanquishing all things evil and unholy, only to have God ignore him and refuse him one last chance to have a life. Oh well. He'd had a pretty good run. Twenty-seven is plenty old enough to experience the wonders of the world.

_Sorry, Sammy. Can't make it this time._

He tried closing his eyes, and then realized they'd already been closed this whole time. And he hovered like that for a while, somewhere between consciousness and infinite black. Just . . . waiting. This was sure taking a long time.

And then a new sensation stirred him. Something cold. Oh, so blessedly cold. Wiping away the sweat (and blood?) from his face. He groaned and tried to reach out, but his arm refused to respond. Someone called his name, miles away, a lifetime away, but there it was. Echoing.

An angel must have heard him. _Holy shit, it worked. Prayer actually worked._ Never believed in angels, never could have faith. Now . . . he could feel one. Hear it. See it, kinda. It was real, and this whole time he'd been so convinced otherwise. The awareness rocked him into consciousness, his heart pounding anew.

"Dean. Dean!"

He managed, somehow, to open his eyes. Still dark, still inside that miserable old house where they'd tracked the demon, but there was a face staring down at him. Probably the most beautiful face he'd ever seen. Seemed to give off a light of its own, shrouded in it, almost blinding him.

" . . . getting you out of here . . ."

"No way," he groaned, letting those hands move down to inspect his chest. "'M not leaving. Sam . . ."

"Sam's here, Dean, it's all right."

"Jus' let me get up."

"Dean, goddamnit, hold still for just one second."

Angels don't swear, do they? He blinked, and frowned. His vision was swimming and he couldn't focus on the face, but he knew it was there. God, those hands felt good. Solid. Cold.

"It's me, man. Sam. I'm here."

Dean let his head fall back, thudding painfully on the floor. "Hey, Sammy. Thought you were an angel."

Laughter, short and nervous but full of relief. "You don't believe in angels."

"Whatever. Gemme the fuck outta here."

"I'm working on it. Hang on, I'll figure something out."

"Did I geddim? Th' stupid fucking –"

"Yeah, you got him. He's long gone."

"Good."

And then he really did black out. For how long he couldn't say, but he was able to go into the dark without guilt. Sam was okay. Mission accomplished. Time to get some fucking rest, finally.

The second time he woke up, he knew he was in a hospital. Where else would they paint the walls so obscenely, painfully, disgustingly white, purely to piss off people fighting to regain their vision? And that smell . . . all-too familiar. Medicine and death. Ugly combination. His chest was hurting more than ever; a sure sign of life. Well, forgive him for not jumping with joy at having to live with a disfiguring scar that would probably never stop burning.

Sam was there, asleep while hunched over the bed, holding his hand like he was a little kid crossing the street or something. Embarrassing. He contemplated shaking him off, waking him up and making fun of him for getting so worked up over Big Brother Dean. But he didn't. If Sam could hold onto him, than he most certainly could hold on to Sam. God knows they only had each other. That, and he was still too weak to do any real shaking of any limbs.

He looked up at the ceiling and wondered if it was possible that he really had seen an angel somewhere. Well, of course the idea was ridiculous . . . but he'd seen a lot weirder in his days, hadn't he? And for a moment, that face had been so beautiful, so surreal, almost inhuman. Couldn't have bee Sam. Maybe something acting through Sam, letting him know that they're not so alone in this as he thought.

His eyes fell back down to Sam's dark, tousled hair. He smiled a little. An angel, indeed. As if he didn't have enough nicknames for his little brother.


End file.
